If I had the knackI'd sing likeCherry flakes falling
Many solemn nights Blond moon, we stand and marvel...Sleeping our noons away
At one time I was weary of verse writing, and wanted to give it up. At another time I was determined to be a poet until I could establish a proud name over others. The alternatives battled in my mind...
Here is a greedy man who keeps to himselfThe beautiful pears ripe in his garden.
Awakened at midnightby the sound of the water jarcracking from the ice
ChrysanthemumSilence - monk Sips his morning tea.
Why so scrawny, cat?Starving for fat fish or mice...Or backyard love?
Twilight whippoorwill...Whistle on, sweet deepenerOf dark loneliness
Had I crossed the passSupported by a stick,I would have spared myselfThe fall from the horse.
The journey itself is my home.
On this roadwhere nobody else travelsautumn nightfall.
It is only a barbarous mind that sees other than the flower, merely an animal mind that dreams of other than the moon.
Not knowing the name of the tree,I stood in the floodof its sweet scent.
Describe plum-blossoms?Better than my verses...whiteWordless Butterflies
When composing a verse let there not be a hair's breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman...
Real poetry, is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.
Winter solitude-in a world of one colourthe sound of the wind.
When a country is defeated, there remain only mountains and rivers, and on a ruined castle in spring only grasses thrive. I sat down on my hat and wept bitterly till I almost forgot time.A thicket of...
Dead my old fine hopesAnd dry my dreaming but still...Iris, blue each spring
Summer grasses,All that remainsOf soldiers' dreams
